


simple and without artifice

by uptillthree



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, barely related to the second prompt tbh, caprimonth, day 21: love, day 22: fashion, rly just my personal Laurent's Hair headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:31:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uptillthree/pseuds/uptillthree
Summary: “It’s getting long,” Damen said, running his fingers through Laurent’s hair. He didn’t seem displeased, though. Quite the opposite. “Aren’t you going to trim it?”Laurent made a noncommittal sound, leaning backwards into Damen’s chest. After a moment, he replied, “I used to wear it long.”He saw Damen react to that with significant interest; he inhaled deeply, pressed a kiss into Laurent’s hair, and said, “I can imagine.”





	simple and without artifice

**Author's Note:**

> just 2 kings in bed braiding each others hair 0 feet apart because theyr soft & in Love

As a rule, Laurent and Damen were both quick to wake in the mornings, a product of a prince’s upbringing and a soldier’s training. Generally, Laurent found it a wonderful relief, to be able to share the ritual of getting up with someone who understood both the importance of discipline and the tediousness of it. 

On certain days, though, when their schedules were not quite as full and matters were not all that pressing, Laurent allowed himself to indulge.

“Good morning,” he murmured, eyes still closed, when he became conscious enough to recognize Damen’s hands running through his hair.

“Good morning,” Damen said in return. Laurent could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s getting long,” Damen said, running his fingers through Laurent’s hair again, though he didn’t seem displeased. Quite the opposite. “Aren’t you going to trim it?”

Laurent made a noncommittal sound, leaning backwards into Damen’s chest. In Arles and on the journey past the border, he’d trimmed it short and frequently, never letting it grow past his ears. Now, here, the urgency of such a trivial thing had somehow faded; his hair was long enough to brush past his shoulders. After a moment, he replied, “I used to wear it long.”

That hand in his hair did not stop, but its movements did gentle, as though not to spook him. “When you were younger?”

“Mm.” Then, out of some desire to see how Damen would take it, he looked up and added, “It came down almost to my waist.” 

He saw Damen react to that with significant interest; he inhaled deeply, pressed a kiss into Laurent’s hair, and said, “I can imagine.”

“Auguste wore his hair long, too. But not as long as mine. Only down to his shoulders.” 

The air seemed to change, at that, as it always did when Auguste was brought up between them. Still, Damen did not stop combing his fingers through Laurent’s hair.

It went unsaid that as the younger brother, Laurent had steadfastly followed everything Auguste did. It was custom, especially since Auguste had been Crown Prince: Long hair, in royalty, signified peace, wealth, independence. Auguste would refuse to tie his hair back or braid it even when he rode horses or practiced in the training field. It would get in his face and Laurent would laugh. 

“He only cut his hair the night before we rode for Marlas,” Laurent continued, and his voice had softened without his permission. Damen would have known that already. “He helped cut mine, too.” 

Long hair was for peacetime and indulgent fashion, not practical for battle. It had been different, that single night: Sitting in Auguste’s chair with long clumps of hair cluttering the floor, Auguste solemn and near-silent, the burden of tomorrow— of Marlas— near tangible in the room. The air had felt different. If Laurent were a perfectly honest person he would have admitted that he had been afraid.

The noise that Damen made was low and almost sorrowful. “You did not let it grow long again after,” he said, partly a question. 

“Oh, I did, as a matter of fact. I cut it myself when I was— sixteen? Fifteen?” Laurent shrugged, and very carefully did not dwell on the memory. 

“What happened?”

“I wanted— I was tired of… people thinking I was younger than I was, I thought it would make me look older.” He paused to unclench his teeth, fearful of what his words were giving away. But Damen remained quiet, waiting, so Laurent continued. 

“It was a disaster— I used the first pair of scissors I could find, which turned out to be a very blunt pair, and my hair came out rather uneven.” Despite the sourness of the memory and the story he was telling Laurent felt himself smiling, embarrassed at himself. It was different, telling the story here, in Damen’s arms; it made the memory seem farther away, as though it had happened to someone else. “One of the servants had to fix it for me.”

When Damen laughed, Laurent felt it rumbling through his chest. “Really.”

“It was the stable boy’s mother— she worked in the palace kitchens.” Laurent shook his head. “I remember planning to go for a ride, and the boy looked horrified when he saw me, so he offered to have it fixed by his mother.” Laurent looked up, met Damen’s eyes. He reached up to tug at a curl just dangling by Damen’s forehead. “What about you?”

Damen shrugged. “I never wore mine longer than it is now— I wouldn’t have liked to tie it back, and it would just get in the way when I was playing as a boy.” Which was all the time, Laurent would bet. Damen’s hand crept down to cup Laurent’s cheeks. “I… Father did, though.”

“Oh?” 

“Mm. It is… appropriate, for Akielon kings. To wear their hair or beard long. When the country was at peace.”

“Really.” Laurent’s hand drifted absently to Damen’s jaw. “Well. You are king.”

Laughter. “Yes, I do know that.”

Abruptly, Laurent sat up. “Yours is growing longer too.” He pushed at Damen’s shoulder until he rose from the covers as well. Damen’s hair did not yet reach his shoulders, but it was still longer than it had been when Laurent had first seen him in Arles. Damen had not cut it since he’d been hailed King. Laurent positioned himself at Damen’s back and gathered the longest strands between his fingers.

Damen twisted curiously. “What are you—”

“Stay still.” He had not done it in a very long time, but to his own surprise his hands still remembered how to do it, pulling and weaving Damen’s curls into a short, neat braid. Damen was unexpectedly quiet. When he was done, he sat there for a moment, looking about for something to tie it with, until Damen passed him a short ribbon from the nightstand. 

Damen was beaming again while Laurent tied his hair. “You used to braid your hair.”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “When I was patient enough to wait for it to be finished.” He had to push away the memory of his mother, running a comb through his hair; telling him to be still or else his braid would come out uneven.

Damen laughed, delighted. “Teach me how.”

“Mm. I could show you.” After a moment, Laurent brushed his own hair to his side so both he and Damen could reach it. Quietly, he guided Damen’s hands through the motions, braiding only half of his hair to keep it out of his face.

“Oh!” Damen said after a moment. “You know, there’s a rope knot that’s a bit like this.”

Laurent blinked. “Do not,” he said, “Compare my hair to rope.”

Damen began to laugh, Laurent’s hair shaking between his fingers. Laurent pretended to glare. “I’m sorry,” he said, still laughing. “But the look on your face!”

“Ha, ha,” Laurent said, entirely deadpan.

Damen grinned at him, before reaching to take another ribbon from the nightstand and tying Laurent’s braid with it while Laurent pretended not to be impressed with how quickly he’d learned to do it. 

“There,” Damen said, when he’d finished. Still smiling, he leaned forward and caught Laurent’s mouth in a long, slow kiss. One hand came up to cup Laurent’s face, the other clasping Laurent’s own. A soft noise escaped Laurent’s throat before he could stop himself. When Damen pulled away, Laurent’s lips were already helplessly curving upward.

“Good morning,” Damen whispered against his lips. “Your Majesty.”

For a moment, Laurent simply breathed, throat too tight to speak. “Good morning,” he returned. “My King.”


End file.
